Ship's Company, the Entire Collection. W. W. Jacobs

his wife took up her knife and fork.

      His workaday clothes appeared in his bedroom next morning, but the others still remained in the clutches of Aunt Emma. The suit provided was of considerable antiquity, and at closing time, Mr. Jobson, after some hesitation, donned his new clothes and with a sheepish glance at his wife went out; Mrs. Jobson nodded delight at her daughters.

      “He's coming round,” she whispered. “He liked that ticket-collector calling him 'sir' yesterday. I noticed it. He's put on everything but the topper. Don't say nothing about it; take it as a matter of course.”

      It became evident as the days wore on that she was right … Bit by bit she obtained the other clothes—with some difficulty—from Aunt Emma, but her husband still wore his best on Sundays and sometimes of an evening; and twice, on going into the bedroom suddenly, she had caught him surveying himself at different angles in the glass.

      And, moreover, he had spoken with some heat—for such a good-tempered man—on the shortcomings of Dorothy's laundry work.

      “We'd better put your collars out,” said his wife.

      “And the shirts,” said Mr. Jobson. “Nothing looks worse than a bad got-up cuff.”

      “You're getting quite dressy,” said his wife, with a laugh.

      Mr. Jobson eyed her seriously.

      “No, mother, no,” he replied. “All I've done is to find out that you're right, as you always 'ave been. A man in my persition has got no right to dress as if he kept a stall on the kerb. It ain't fair to the gals, or to young Bert. I don't want 'em to be ashamed of their father.”

      “They wouldn't be that,” said Mrs. Jobson.

      “I'm trying to improve,” said her husband. “O' course, it's no use dressing up and behaving wrong, and yesterday I bought a book what tells you all about behaviour.”

      “Well done!” said the delighted Mrs. Jobson.

      Mr. Jobson was glad to find that her opinion on his purchase was shared by the rest of the family. Encouraged by their approval, he told them of the benefit he was deriving from it; and at tea-time that day, after a little hesitation, ventured to affirm that it was a book that might do them all good.

      “Hear, hear!” said Gladys.

      “For one thing,” said Mr. Jobson, slowly, “I didn't know before that it was wrong to blow your tea; and as for drinking it out of a saucer, the book says it's a thing that is only done by the lower orders.”

      “If you're in a hurry?” demanded Mr. Bert Jobson, pausing with his saucer half way to his mouth.

      “If you're in anything,” responded his father. “A gentleman would rather go without his tea than drink it out of a saucer. That's the sort o' thing Bill Foley would do.”

      Mr. Bert Jobson drained his saucer thoughtfully.

      “Picking your teeth with your finger is wrong, too,” said Mr. Jobson, taking a breath. “Food should be removed in a—a—un-undemonstrative fashion with the tip of the tongue.”

      “I wasn't,” said Gladys.

      “A knife,” pursued her father—“a knife should never in any circumstances be allowed near the mouth.”

      “You've made mother cut herself,” said Gladys, sharply; “that's what you've done.”

      “I thought it was my fork,” said Mrs. Jobson. “I was so busy listening I wasn't thinking what I was doing. Silly of me.”

      “We shall all do better in time,” said Mr. Jobson. “But what I want to know is, what about the gravy? You can't eat it with a fork, and it don't say nothing about a spoon. Oh, and what about our cold tubs, mother?”

      “Cold tubs?” repeated his wife, staring at him. “What cold tubs?”

      “The cold tubs me and Bert ought to 'ave,” said Mr. Jobson. “It says in the book that an Englishman would just as soon think of going without his breakfus' as his cold tub; and you know how fond I am of my breakfus'.”

      “And what about me and the gals?” said the amazed Mrs. Jobson.

      “Don't you worry about me, ma,” said Gladys, hastily.

      “The book don't say nothing about gals; it says Englishmen,” said Mr. Jobson.

      “But we ain't got a bathroom,” said his son.

      “It don't signify,” said Mr. Jobson. “A washtub'll do. Me and Bert'll 'ave a washtub each brought up overnight; and it'll be exercise for the gals bringing the water up of a morning to us.”

      “Well, I don't know, I'm sure,” said the bewildered Mrs. Jobson. “Anyway, you and Bert'll 'ave to carry the tubs up and down. Messy, I call it.

      “It's got to be done, mother,” said Mr. Jobson cheerfully. “It's only the lower orders what don't 'ave their cold tub reg'lar. The book says so.”

      He trundled the tub upstairs the same night and, after his wife had gone downstairs next morning, opened the door and took in the can and pail that stood outside. He poured the contents into the tub, and, after eyeing it thoughtfully for some time, agitated the surface with his right foot. He dipped and dried that much enduring member some ten times, and after regarding the damp condition of the towels with great satisfaction, dressed himself and went downstairs.

      “I'm all of a glow,” he said, seating himself at the table. “I believe I could eat a elephant. I feel as fresh as a daisy; don't you, Bert?”

      Mr. Jobson, junior, who had just come in from the shop, remarked, shortly, that he felt more like a blooming snowdrop.

      “And somebody slopped a lot of water over the stairs carrying it up,” said Mrs. Jobson. “I don't believe as everybody has cold baths of a morning. It don't seem wholesome to me.”

      Mr. Jobson took a book from his pocket, and opening it at a certain page, handed it over to her.

      “If I'm going to do the thing at all I must do it properly,” he said, gravely. “I don't suppose Bill Foley ever 'ad a cold tub in his life; he don't know no better. Gladys!”

      “Halloa!” said that young lady, with a start.

      “Are you—are you eating that kipper with your fingers?”

      Gladys turned and eyed her mother appealingly.

      “Page-page one hundred and something, I think it is,” said her father, with his mouth full. “'Manners at the Dinner Table.' It's near the end of the book, I know.”

      “If I never do no worse than that I shan't come to no harm,” said his daughter.

      Mr. Jobson shook his head at her, and after eating his breakfast with great care, wiped his mouth on his handkerchief and went into the shop.

      “I suppose it's all right,” said Mrs. Jobson, looking after him, “but he's taking it very serious—very.”

      “He washed his hands five times yesterday morning,” said Dorothy, who had just come in from the shop to her breakfast; “and kept customers waiting while he did it, too.”

      “It's the cold-tub business I can't get over,” said her mother. “I'm sure it's more trouble to empty them than what it is to fill them. There's quite enough work in the 'ouse as it is.”

      “Too much,” said Bert, with unwonted consideration.

      “I wish he'd leave me alone,” said Gladys. “My food don't do me no good when he's watching every mouthful I eat.”

      Of murmurings such as these Mr. Jobson heard nothing, and in view of the great improvement in his dress and manners, a strong resolution was passed to avoid the faintest appearance of discontent. Even when, satisfied with his own appearance, he